


Wherever water

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: By wreckage, torches, dust [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Asgardians may not be immortal but are awfully hard to kill anyway (maybe), Ficlet, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Ah, but what of my last question to you, Odinson?" Years agone, that final fray.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Loki has many enemies (rightfully so, no doubt), and has been missing a long time when he is found again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever water

What Loki knows: the ground beneath him is not real. He is not propped up in a tent, tucked in with wool and fur blankets, incongruously like those from his own once-ago bed, that seem to hold his scent yet. He is submerged in a basin of chilly water, sprawls in shadow under a weeping tree, stands on an outcropping of rhyolite while ancient stars howl dying around him. 

He is where he ever is, fallen, falling, carved from nothing, consumed and suspended in white, white, bone white, burning and frozen. As those pathetic Midgardians might have said, he is gone, baby, gone.

Logically, then, if he is not here and the ground, tent, and blankets are not real, then none of it matters now. Not the bargains he made, schemes he concocted, blades and magics he has wielded against innocents in many realms, not any throne nor the power to gaze upon and shatter the whole of the universe. (He is less than a mote of dust, a raindrop, a blink, a breath.) Not corpses strewn behind him like dry leaves. Not the rage and loathing he felt, all its wracking depths, nor a tesseract's thin lapis-stained music, like lightning in his veins, that once promised a reprieve. Not a pure blue Asgardian sky he will never see again, nor his brother's eyes, nor his brother; he has no brother; he never had a brother.

And if none of it matters, then Loki should not worry a second longer. He stifles a laugh. He hears beyond the illusory tent the patter of rain and a burbling creek, fictions all. His not-brother, who is not really there any more than Loki himself is, kneels beside him and begins to unwrap him from the blankets. 

Not-Thor's hands are dry heat as they circle Loki's unchained wrists. More evidence this is not Thor since Thor would never be so quiet. From his expression not-Thor looks, Loki thinks, like he might be wounded somehow -- pained, anyway, moving gingerly as though bruised -- and some part of Loki is gladdened and horrified.

"How did you find me?" Loki asks because, in the end, it should not concern him that he is still curious, and this is, after all, the very end. There is nothing left, and there will be no actual answer. It is merely conversation he is making with a spectre, a reverie -- _a wish,_ his ruined mind supplies. 

The Thor who is not really there stops his hands at Loki's shoulders. "I gave up too quickly last time," not-Thor says, nearly to himself. "It was easier to... This time, I was more prepared for what would be required of me."

The grief in his voice makes Loki shiver. Whatever not-Thor sees in Loki's expression makes him bring his hands up to cup Loki's face. 

"Of the many things I should have told you, once long ago and every time since," not-Thor says, "this is what I should have told you first. You were always loved." 

Loki's throat aches for some unfathomable reason. Not real, not real, not real. The rain running down the sides of the tent sounds like gentle waves lapping at a shore, and Loki feels the sensation of sinking, slowly, of being pulled ankle first by a silken cord to the bottom of a calm ice-laced lake. 

Not-Thor is an even worse liar than actual Thor, and Loki begins to say so, but not-Thor continues softly, "Whatever you would know of me now, I love you still." 

Pain blossoms in Loki's chest, and with certain, vengeful pride he tries to say, "Ah, but what of my last question to you, Odinson?" Years agone, that final fray. It is of no concern. There were many battles between them, many wars and betrayals. No one will mourn Loki now, not even Loki. Strange that his own voice is only a whisper.

Not-Thor's fingers softly stroke the line of Loki's jaw, and a curious heat flares beneath them. Mjölnir notwithstanding, his brother never had any particular aptitude for magic; but then, Loki thinks distantly, this isn't Thor. This isn't anyone.

Whatever he is, not-Thor's eyelashes are wet and his eyes so dark Loki feels quite at a loss to explain what could have made a mere illusion wretchedly sad. The figment's thumbs trace away wetness on Loki's cheeks, and it bows its forehead to Loki's.

No, Loki tells himself. It is not real. You are sleeping and will not wake. You are bound and will never be free. You have been turned out of Hel. Deceiver, murderer, thief, you who froze, burnt, and drowned. You will never enter Valhalla, you will never draw another breath, you will never be found again; it does not matter; so you may have this. You are allowed this final deception. 

He closes his eyes. 

As if it were easily repeated, Thor says, "My answer is as it was then," leaning into him like nothing will keep him from Loki. "You were always forgiven." 

Loki chokes back a sob, and then Thor's mouth is on his, hot, claiming, and Loki falls, alight with relief, tangling his hands in Thor's hair. Thor pushes Loki down on the blankets and Loki lets him drag him into his arms -- favored arrogant brave hated Thor who Loki loves more than he can explain, believe, or deny. Thor who loves Loki like a curse and holds him like he is his to save. 

Outside the tent the dream of cold rain rushes down and the creek creeps nearer.

 

. . . . .

"I believe the rain has finally stopped," Thor says, a near murmur, the first thing either of them has said in hours. His unshaven face scratches Loki's bare shoulder as he presses a kiss there. He strokes his hand down Loki's arm, bringing Loki back into himself.

Loki opens his eyes.

There is a single lit candle floating in a corner of the tent. Thor has learned this simplest magic and it casts a gold-green light that shifts over them serenely.

It is just like being beneath a lake's tranquil surface, Loki thinks. We are children again, holding our breath, Thor's hand in mine and we are swimming deeper. It is warm here; the sun is rising just above us. Soon we will ascend, laughing, two princes of Asgard. All is well.

One last lie, Loki thinks, to keep me company, to take to my grave.

 

. . . . . 

_Wherever there is water there is someone drowning.  
\--Robert Bly_

 

. . . . .

**Author's Note:**

> With the arrival of autumn, I've really been wanting spooky things. So.
> 
> [ETA 14 Oct. 2013] Because I'm super slow about most things, really, it didn't initially occur to me this story was part of a series. It doesn't have to be -- you can read it as a stand alone, I think -- but it might be. 
> 
> Or, I think of it as such, in which case part one is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/986257).
> 
> Part three, which is Thor's, is coming soon. ::pets my little lizard brain gently, promises to bribe it with pumpkin spice lattes::
> 
> [ETA 2: The Reckoning. Massive (and way-too-belated thanks to Jintian for beta-stuffs lo these many months ago now. *g*]


End file.
